


74/20

by Rubadubababyoil



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brian May's 1974 Hepatitis Diagnosis, Flashbacks, Gen, Hugs, Roger Taylor (Queen) Is a Good Friend, Sad Brian May, Sick Brian May
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28806039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubadubababyoil/pseuds/Rubadubababyoil
Summary: With Brian's serious health scare in 2020, Roger can't help but think back to when he almost lost him the first time in 1974.
Relationships: Brian May & Roger Taylor
Comments: 23
Kudos: 51





	74/20

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to disappoint y'all with a platonic fic lmao but this just came about after wondering how Roger must have felt to learn of Brian's health problems last year. This is pure fiction, of course, I was just Feeling Things.
> 
> By the way, I'm treating it as established knowledge here, but in case you don't know, Brian said that after his heart attack, the real threat to his health came from the medication he was placed on, which caused his stomach to hemorrhage. Poor guy :(

“Rog…”

Roger immediately tensed up. It was a tone of voice he hadn’t heard in years—decades, actually—and he hated how a chill instantly gripped the base of his spine. “Brian,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m in hospital again,” he said, voice faint on the other end of the phone. “I’ve got my phone. It’s...This might be it this time.”

Roger thought that it was _his_ heart that stopped instead this time. His mouth opened, but words didn’t come. An old fear reared its ugly head again, but it was worse this time, realer, because they weren’t young men anymore.

* * *

That same weak, ailing tone of voice was used in 1974. Brian had been unwell with fatigue and pain in his arm for some time, but how long, Roger couldn’t say. He kept his pain to himself, although Roger supposed they all did. None of them were complainers when it was actually about something serious. Brian spoke of the pain in his arm and being tired all the time, but none of them knew how bad it was, maybe not even Brian, himself. When he crumpled to the floor backstage, they’d gotten a pretty good idea, and Roger went from being mildly concerned about his well-being to feeling downright scared. It wasn’t an emotion he felt often, and that alone frightened him even more. Something was wrong, but they initially chalked it up to food poisoning.

When he turned yellow, Roger turned as white as a ghost.

Hepatitis. Of all the god damned things…

They were all sitting together in the airport, a storm of different emotions brewing inside them all. Roger couldn’t deny he felt really disappointed that their first tour in America was being cut short, but he hated even feeling that, because one look at Brian had guilt clawing at him. His friend was sick, and here he was, upset about the bloody tour. Some friend he was, although he wondered if the others had similar thoughts. If they did, no one voiced them. That would break Brian’s heart.

When it was time to get up and board the plane, the three of them hadn’t even noticed that Brian wasn’t walking beside them, at first. 

“Rog…”

His voice was soft, hardly audible with the rest of the noise in the airport, but it was just enough to make Roger turn around.

Brian was staring up at him from his seat, eyes glassy and desperate and a little bit embarrassed. His fringe stuck to his clammy forehead. “I don’t think I can get up,” he admitted, the faintest hint of a shamed flush breaking through the sickly yellow of his complexion.

Heart in his throat, Roger was glad his sunglasses masked how scared shitless he must have looked in that moment. “That’s all right,” he said with the worry forced out of his tone. He walked in front of him and held out his hands. “Grab on.” Brian did, and Roger’s throat tightened at how weak his grip was. He pulled him up and struggled when Brian stumbled to his feet and almost tipped over. 

He was panting out his mouth and his hands tightened around Roger’s. “The room’s spinning,” he said, voice as alarmed as it was weak.

Roger kept his tone light because he knew Brian would only become more upset if he knew he was starting to internally freak out, just a little. “Give yourself a moment,” he said, squeezing his hands in reassurance. “You’ll get your balance back.” His heart was pounding. God damn it, they should have noticed Brian was seriously unwell sooner, but they were caught up in the cheering crowds and parties and girls. He should’ve been in hospital last night, not on stage. They’d let him down. What the hell would Brian’s parents think, knowing they were taking a gander at American girls instead of noticing the health of their one and only son declining?

Brian dipped his head forward, leaning his burning forehead on Roger’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he whispered.

Roger held onto him, stress stinging his stomach like needles. Brian wasn’t supposed to lean on him for support, he was supposed to argue with him over nonsense until Freddie had to break them up. He wasn’t supposed to struggle to stand, but walk around stage with the flowing white sleeves of his tunic billowing behind him. He was only twenty-six; he wasn’t supposed to look like he was dy—no, no, he was going to be fine. “You’re going to be fine,” Roger told him.

By now, Freddie and John realized something was wrong and came back over.

“Brian? What is it?” Freddie asked, his large eyes as frightened as Roger felt.

“He feels weak,” Roger explained over his shoulder.

John blinked hard. “Right, then.” He swiftly moved to Brian’s left and looped his long arm around his shoulders. “Roger, you get the other side,” he said firmly.

Roger didn’t have time to react to John proving himself to be more responsible and useful than he and Freddie were combined. He just nodded and carefully lifted Brian’s head off his shoulder, cupping his flushed cheek for a moment so he wouldn’t jostle him, and shifted so he supported Brian’s other side.

Freddie took it upon himself to make sure no one was standing in their way. “I’ll lead the way, my loves!” he declared. “Don’t worry, Bri, we’ll be on the plane in a jiffy!” He was trying to be cheerful, but his voice was a touch unsteady.

“Okay, Brian, we’re going to begin walking,” John said calmly. “Try to move with us.”

Roger had no idea how John could keep his composure, but they moved along with Brian through the airport, struggling against his dead weight. _No, not dead._

“I’m sorry,” Brian apologized again, almost inaudibly.

“Shut it,” Roger responded gruffly, shivering despite the feverish heat from Brian against him. “Just try to move your legs.”

But he couldn’t, not really, and Roger and John had to drag Brian to the plane while Freddie shouted at anyone in their way. It was a relief when they finally dumped Brian into the window seat on the plane. He was panting again, sweating and trembling. They all told him to try to get some rest, but he was far too uncomfortable. Roger sat across from him, and for hours, he watched Brian writhe and hold back groans of misery. His brow was pinched and he often bit his lower lip to the point where it grew red and raw. Roger was unsettled from seeing him like this and he wished he could help, but he was useless. 

Freddie sat next to Brian and he was much more nurturing than Roger or John. He held Brian’s hand with one of his own, and used his other hand to gently caress his skin and knuckles periodically. “Easy, darling,” Freddie would whisper when Brian shifted in his seat, hot from the fever and aching all over. He would occasionally brush away the curls from his face, too, and Roger almost envied how naturally caring came to him.

It was late and a long flight back to America, though, so despite his best efforts, Freddie dozed off on Brian’s shoulder a few hours in, still holding his hand. As worried as he was, he did sing his heart out and prance all over stage night after night, so it was no wonder he couldn’t stay up. John fell asleep, too, but neither Roger nor Brian could sleep. It was just the two of them, in this bubble of worry and illness separated from the rest of the passengers on the plane. 

For Brian, every attempt he made to relax was interrupted by a new wave of pain or nausea, and Roger was privately dealing with the fact that he’d never felt so bloody anxious in his life, and it was a foreign feeling. It was utterly disconcerting to see his friend like this, rendered helpless and diminished when he was such a force on stage. Roger still felt terrible because he should have noticed just how much Brian was suffering and told him to go to a doctor sooner. He was the one who’d taken those stupid biology courses at uni. He wasn’t a doctor, but he had more medical knowledge than the rest of them. He was too busy charming the girls backstage to notice his friend was fucking seriously ill. What was wrong with him?

Brian’s eyes had been closed, but they lazily opened and landed on him. He swallowed. “Roger?” he croaked.

“Yeah?” he asked, sitting forward in his seat to hear him, keeping his voice low.

His light eyes didn’t look all-there, and his lips were parted with shallow breaths. His gaze, normally observant and intelligent, was hazy with fever. “What if I don’t get better?” he whispered.

Roger’s stomach dropped, but he wasn’t surprised that he’d been thinking this. Brian was never one to think positively, to put it lightly, and he truly was in a sorry state right now. It was expected that a dark stormcloud would hang over him. “Don’t say that,” Roger said sternly. “You’re young and fit, and after treatment, you’ll be fine. I know you feel like crap now, but it won’t last forever.”

A slight furrow formed in between his brow and he pressed his lips together. “You really think so?” he asked, sounding terribly young.

Roger felt a little twist in his chest, because there were times when Brian could be so sincere that it rendered every stupid argument they had as insignificant. Beneath the fierce stubbornness and extremely strong opinions were kindness and vulnerability. Roger didn’t forget that. “I do,” he said, placing a hand on his knee. “So don’t talk like that. _Especially_ don’t let Freddie hear you say that,” he murmured, nodding towards him.

Brian grinned for the first time all day and he looked down at him. “He’d start fussing.”

“He would,” Roger agreed, squeezing his knee before sitting back. “So shaddup,” he grinned, and felt a little better when Brian’s smile widened a little.

* * *

“What’s happening now?” Roger asked urgently. “Is it your heart again?”

“No, the medicine for the heart,” Brian replied, his voice difficult to hear. “My stomach, it’s bleeding.”

Roger closed his eyes when they began to sting. “Not your fucking stomach again,” he rasped before he could catch himself…

* * *

...because he’d been wrong. Brian _wasn’t_ fine after being hospitalized for hepatitis. For weeks after he was released, he was still pale and often clutched his stomach in pain. He tried so hard, but his playing wasn’t at its best and he had a hard time focusing due to the pain he was clearly in.

 _“Brian, do you need a break?”_ became a common question.

 _“No, no, I’m fine,”_ was his denial. He kept doing that: denied and denied and denied and insisted he was okay, until he couldn’t record anymore from having to run out of the room to vomit so many times.

The three of them yelled at Brian enough for him to _finally_ agree to go to the doctor, and he landed in a hospital bed because he collapsed _again._

A deep chill passed through Roger, Freddie, and John when the doctor told them that if he hadn’t gotten the operation, he would have died. It was unfathomable to them all, but especially Roger. Over the past six years since Smile first formed, Brian was the only constant in his life, and he didn’t realize how afraid he was of losing him. It wasn’t like he went around thinking of what it’d be like for his mates to kick the bucket—they were all in their 20s, for fuck’s sake.

Now, after surgery, Brian was lying in the hospital bed. He turned his head and looked over at Roger when he came into the room. Dark circles of exhaustion were under his eyes. “Hi,” he said quietly.

“Hi,” Roger said, voice thicker than normal. He frowned and cleared his throat. They were alone in the room, with John and Freddie set to arrive later today. He wished they were here now to ease the tension, to distract Roger from how much his chest hurt at the dreariness on Brian’s face. “How d’you feel?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

He shrugged one shoulder and averted his gaze. “Like shit, but I’m used to it” He was as thin as ever, the hospital gown almost slipping off his shoulders since he hadn’t been able to hold food down consistently for some time.

“I’m sorry,” Roger said. _I’m sorry you’re so sick, I’m sorry I told you that you’d be fine._ He didn’t know exactly why he felt guilty about something out of his control. He just did. 

“It’s okay,” he dismissed automatically. Brian’s hair was matted and splayed out on the pillow. 

Roger’s hand twitched with the strange urge to push his curls back from his face. He didn’t act on it.

Brian tried sighing deeply, but any breath too big hurt his incision. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

Roger shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Can I get you anything?” he asked, uncertain that he could help in any real way, but he had to say something. He was standing here like a useless lump on a log.

“No, but. I want to talk to you,” Brian said and looked at the wall. “I’ve been thinking about something.” He was monotone.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I want to run it by you before Freddie shows up.”

“O...kay?” he said, not sure where this was going.

He swallowed, throat clicking. “I’ve been sick so much this year,” he said hollowly. “I cut the tour short. I can hardly record. The band’s stuck because of me. If you want to find another guitarist, I understand.”

Roger stood there with his face scrunching up in confusion. He wasn’t comprehending. “I’m sorry, what?”

Brian refused to look at him, but Roger could see how his features were turned down in grief. “I’ve spent so much time in a hospital bed or throwing up in the studio. It feels never ending. I’ve been nothing but an obstacle to Queen all year, so—”

* * *

“—You’ll have to find a replacement guitarist.”

“Don’t fucking say that!” Roger snapped, as he did all those years ago. “We’re not ever going to perform without you, do you hear?” In his mind, he was back in that hospital room, yelling at a Brian without a line on his face or a single grey curl yet. He couldn’t help it. It was too similar. Brian had the same voice, the same self-deprecation, the same black cloud hanging over him. “Are you mad? Are you high from whatever the doctors are giving you?”

“I’m being realistic,” he said.

“No, you’re being _pessimistic,”_ Roger insisted.

“What difference do I make?” Brian’s voice replied, bleak and exhausted. 

“Oh, come on, Brian. You know bloody well you’re a quarter of Queen,” he said hotly. “We can’t do it without you.”

“We already play without Freddie and John,” he interrupted calmly, resigned. “Half of the band is gone, and they’ve been gone for a long time. It’ll be okay without me. You have Adam and can easily find another guitarist.”

And Roger was smacked back to the present, because it wasn’t actually 1974, and things weren’t really the same. He couldn’t be there to look Brian in the eye and tell him he’d be okay. Freddie wasn’t here anymore to hold Brian’s hand and tell him he’d be okay, either, or reassure him that he should focus on getting better and the band would wait for him, or create a compilation of his solos as a gift when he convinced himself the band should move on without him. John wasn’t here to be steadfast and strong and help half-carry Brian to the plane. He was a rock during that incident, but the world of rock ‘n’ roll damaged him to the point where he wasn’t there to visit Freddie at the very end. He wasn’t even there to send a single email of acknowledgement that Brian had a heart attack, even though it made the papers. (Roger still couldn’t think of this too long without becoming furious.)

It was only the two of them. Roger had known that for a long time, but the truth was acute and painful in this moment, twisting between his ribcage.

Roger loved Adam and that his Rufus played with them, but Brian was the only real piece of Queen he had left. He was irreplaceable. Before Brian had a heart attack, Roger thought they were both as healthy as men their age could be, so he didn’t seriously think about how they were well and truly old now. When he’d gotten the call that he had a heart attack, it was one of the biggest shocks of his life, but initially, it seemed like he was recovering. His damn stomach was killing him again, though, and Roger was wholly unprepared to lose another brother. Not again. Not _yet._

“I’d never play with Queen’s name again,” Roger swore, fingers cramping from being curled into a tight fist. “Of course you make a bloody difference. We only agreed to be Queen again _together,_ remember?”

“I don’t want to hold you ba—”

 _“Enough,”_ Roger commanded, and all thoughts that he shouldn’t be harsh to the critically ill man were overtaken by his own inability to handle this. He was a considerably strong person, but permanently affected by Freddie’s death. He wasn’t the man he once was. “You’re not holding anyone back. You’re in pain, so you’re not thinking straight. Stop that line of thought. Don’t think about anything but getting better, because you _will,_ Brian.”

“I don’t know,” Brian said, his tone frightened beneath the weakness.

“You will,” Roger stressed, to Brian and himself. “You’ve always been stronger than you think. You’ll get better and we’ll be on tour next year, you’ll see.” But he knew things were grim, and Brian needed to fight. He couldn’t let himself be consumed by hopelessness. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but you can get through this, too,” Roger told him. _You have to. Please._

A shaky sigh. “I—I’ll try.”

Roger rubbed his eyes. “Listen, you shouldn’t be on your phone right now. Give it to Anita, let the doctors do their thing, and rest.”

“Okay,” Brian said. “Okay, you’re, you’re right. I’m going to hang up now.”

“Good. I’ll call tomorrow,” Roger promised, as he’d done since the chilling phone call informing him of the heart attack.

“Okay. Bye, Roger, and...thanks.”

“Seriously, don’t mention it,” Roger said, and hung up. He put the phone down and took a long, deep breath. He hated this year. He couldn’t grasp how in a few short months, he went from rocking out with Brian on stage in New Zealand and South Korea to receiving calls from his death _—no,_ it wasn’t his deathbed. It wasn’t it. It couldn’t be. Not yet. He knew they were old and the time comes for everyone at some point, but god, _not yet._

He felt more afraid than he did when Brian had the heart attack, and during 1974, because Brian’s body wasn’t young enough to bounce back from a serious health scare anymore. Even with survival, health problems at their age could be permanent. In the solitude of his house, with Sarina out in the garden, Roger could acknowledge that he was scared of being alone. He had his wife and wonderful children, but with his other blood relatives never being super close, the band was the first real family he ever had. With Freddie gone and John’s decision to cut them out of his life years ago, Roger would be without any of his band brothers. 

He fought against the stinging in his eyes and roughly wiped at them with his sleeve. He didn’t want Sarina to see him like this, especially when Brian could recover and his worry could be for nothing. He had to pull himself together. Before he did, he had a small thought. He didn’t know if he believed in any god, but there was someone he always believed in. He looked out the window at the towering statue in the garden, glistening in the sunlight.

_Hey, Freddie. You always loved Brian to pieces...Give him more time, if you can. He’s not finished here yet. Please._

Roger opened his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them. He sighed deeply. _This fucking year._

* * *

_October 2020_

The YouTube live interview had gone fairly well, and it was time for Adam and Brian to leave already. 

Adam bid them farewell in his usual cheerful manner, blowing them a kiss before he got in a cab. It was nice to see Adam again, even if they all had to get tested and have that weird thing up their nose in order to get clearance to do this. Roger knew why it was needed, though, especially because Brian now had pre-existing conditions. _Damn._ But, he looked good today. He was attentive and joking during their interview, and overall in good spirits. The interview felt normal, or as normal as anything could feel this year.

“It was great to see that Adam’s doing well,” Brian said with an easy smile, watching the cab from the window. “I hope we can see him again sooner rather than later.”

“I hope a bloody vaccine comes sooner than later,” Roger said, joining him in front of the window. “I’d rather get a jab in my arm to meet up again than another pipe cleaner up my nostrils.”

Brian chuckled. “Yeah, that wasn’t my favorite thing in the world. It was a strange sensation. I’m not used to things going up there, you know?”

Roger cocked an eyebrow. “But you’re used to things going up other holes, eh?”

Brian knocked him with his elbow. “Shut up,” he laughed. “You sound like Freddie.”

“That is something he’d say,” he agreed with a smirk. 

They shared a laugh, and then Brian quieted down with a wistful smile left on his face. “Still, I hope we won’t go too long without another meetup like this again. It’s strange to think of how much life and the world changed since we were on tour.”

“Understatement of the year,” he deadpanned, but he was reminded, of course, of everything that happened over the past few months.

His grin widened. “I know,” he said, arms crossed and still staring out the window. “But I hope the next time the three of us are together, we’ll be rehearsing for the tour.”

“That’s the plan,” Roger breathed, looking up at him. He did wonder how different the world would be when they saw Adam again, since so much changed since their tour during the infancy of the pandemic. How much the world changed went without saying, but Brian had been to hell and back, too. Roger wasn’t a glass-half-empty kind of person, but there was a time when he genuinely feared there would be no Queen to go back on tour in 2021, but here Brian was, standing in his house and looking to the future with the sun catching in his white curls through the window. Warmth trickled into Roger’s chest, with the two of them alone in the same room for the first time since everything that happened. During the interview and with Adam here, Roger went into a more professional frame of mind, but now, it was just the two of them, and it was all sinking in that he worried he’d never be able to look Brian in the eyes without a screen between them again. But he was here, by Roger’s side, as he always had been since he was that skinny, gangly, awkward uni student with a cropped halo of dark curls and his head in the clouds. _Or stars._

Fucking hell, Roger was getting sentimental in his old age. 50 years of Brian’s influence must have finally been rubbing off on him.

“Well,” Brian sighed a little. “I suppose I should get going now. Anita’s waiting for me. She still worries when I’m out of her sight,” he turned with a smile, slightly bashful but with a softness in his eyes.

And it was those eyes, the same eyes that gazed up with gratitude in 1974 when he was told, in no uncertain terms, that Roger wouldn’t let any wanker replace him, which made more warmth bloom in his chest. Despite everything that happened this year, _every_ year since they lost Freddie, every year since the rest of them almost lost him to hepatitis and an ulcer—despite his curls turning white and wrinkles etching into his skin, he still had the same kind eyes. It was still the same Brian, who was slouching from a lifetime of being self-conscious about his height.

_Some things remain, when I look and I find Brian May._

His smile turned curious. “What?”

Fuck it all. Roger knew they’d fight about something sooner or later, but old age gave him a pass to be a soppy bastard for a moment. He took a couple steps forward and pulled Brian into a hug, his chin on his shoulder because the tall git hadn’t shrunken at all with age. Roger felt Brian’s heart beating in his chest. “You better take care of yourself,” he threatened, the natural rasp to his voice ever so slightly deeper than usual.

Brian didn’t move for a second, but he got over his surprise and hugged him back. “I will, because who am I to tempt the infamous wrath of Roger Taylor?” he joked.

“You know I’ll throttle you,” Roger said, both of them knowing they never actually hit each other in 50 years, even if they’d gotten close in the volatile moods of their youth. 

“You’ll throw your drum kit at me.” Brian’s long arms were around his shoulders and Roger could smell a hint of his aftershave. They were close enough so Roger could still vaguely feel the steady beat of Brian’s heart against his chest. Before he could stop himself, he tightened his embrace. They talked about Brian’s health problems in the interview, but it’d been brief and in the presence of a stranger. With them alone here, Roger realized how lucky he was to be able to do this. The memory of being too late to say goodbye to his best friend was creeping into his mind _—_

Brian pulled back with a solemn expression. “I’m okay, Rog,” he said softly. He understood. Of course he did. He knew him well.

Roger wished he hadn’t taken off his sunglasses after the interview. He let go of him and ducked his head. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Just keep using your little exercise bike and posting your little concerts on Instagram.”

He beamed. “You watch them?”

“To make sure your playing isn’t slipping up!” he waggled his finger with a quick deflection. “I’ve got to make sure you’ll be ready to go back on tour.”

“I will be,” Brian laughed brightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Roger smiled and let himself feel fondness for his friend before they would inevitably be ready to bite each other’s heads off again. He knew it would happen eventually, but it was the dynamic he and Brian had for the past 50 years. He wouldn’t have it any other way. He couldn’t see into the future, but he was hopeful they still had years to come together.

 _“You can’t get rid of me yet,”_ Brian teased with a lopsided grin when he returned to the studio after recovering from surgery on his ulcer.

 _“Nah,”_ Roger smirked. _“You’re like a cat with nine lives.”_

“Just make sure you don’t use up all of your nine lives,” Roger said now.

“I must have at least half left, right? Although I used two in ’74.”

“I’m surprised you remember me saying that.”

“I know, my memory’s usually crap,” Brian chuckled, but then the moment passed and he stopped smiling. “Have you been thinking of back then? When I was sick that year?”

“Well, it’s sort of hard not to,” he admitted. “Especially that shit with your stomach, it was similar and.” And far worse this time. Far scarier, and the knowledge of what it felt like to lose a bandmate far too familiar. He looked away from Brian’s troubled eyes. “It sucked,” he finished lamely. It was ineloquent but he didn’t know what else to say without bringing the mood down and getting all deep and shit when they’d had a nice, relaxing afternoon today. It wasn't like him to sit and dwell.

It was Roger who tensed this time when Brian brought him into another hug. “Gah, you sentimental old git,” he grumbled.

“I am,” Brian said without protest. “Let me be an old git for a minute.”

Roger relaxed into his arms without much of a fight. He closed his eyes, hugged him back, and just breathed. Knowing someone for over 50 years had its perks. They knew what each other needed without words.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this is okay because writing in Roger's POV isn't really easy for me!
> 
> I'm on tumblr under the same username :)


End file.
